The science of waiting
by AGENT Kuma-chan
Summary: His sole companions those five years were one well-worn book and the scientific method.


**Title:** The science of waiting

 **Prompt:** Nov 9 / A sea of ink would not be enough

 **Character/Pairing:** Laurent-centric, mentions of Miriel

 **A/N:** Ahhh, I hate how this doesn't flow that well. Anyways, these are snapshots of Laurent's five years of waiting.

 **Summary:** _His sole companion those five years was one well-worn book and the scientific method._

...

...

...

...

Laurent breathed in, breathed out. The air was clean, sweet and clean and he started to gulp it in. In front of him, he could see tall trees and green (green, green, green) grass, a blue horizon that stretched to the end of the worlds.

He did it, then.

He made it to the past.

There were no smoke filled clouds, no monsters lurking behind every bush.

Just the sweet song of birds and the soft rustle of the breeze.

(And if he searched the recesses of his memory, if he tried hard, he could remember this from his childhood. But he had too many years of death and loss and that memory dissipated like smoke in the wind.)

"I did it," he repeated to himself, his sight going blurry.

And if he spent ten minutes crying, there was not a soul to witness it.

-x-

"I'm too early?" Laurent muttered to himself, staring at the villager in surprise.

"Huh?"

"It's nothing." He caught himself, giving the stranger a weak smile. "So she just became Exultant?"

"Not that long ago. War ended because of her."

"Oh. I see." Laurent bit his lip, thanking the villager politely before leaving.

So he came too early then. The method they used to travel was uncertain and the results even more so. Did the others make it already? Or were they going to arrive too late? Would they even arrive at all?

He didn't even know how long he had to wait, his knowledge of the past limited to guesses and vague memories. The world was vast, too vast—where before he had only a few places of safety, the map was now littered with them.

Just where he should go, he didn't know. The choices drowned him.

-x-

His grandmother's book, one of the few belongings he carried back with him, sat heavily in his pocket. Pulling it out, he inspected the book for the hundredth time, turning each time-worn page with care.

Everything he needed was here. Theories, data, a slew of scientific discoveries that were still being verified and recorded.

Somewhere in this world, his mother had a copy of the book. She would be reading it, pulling her hair back behind her ear.

(And if he thought about it, he was a lucky one to remember her at all. Laurent had memorized the exact look on her face when she was deep in thought, her hair a little too long and in need of a haircut. Pushing her glasses up, she'd chew on her pen as she thought, scribbling words as though she bled them.

And then he found out she bled red like everyone else.)

Somewhere, his mother was finding all the hidden secrets of this world. All he had to do was find the mysteries, find the truths left unknown, and eventually he'd cross paths with her.

-x-

His sole companion those five years was his book. In the margins he'd scribble his findings, his data recorded in grams and meters. Occasionally, he'd put a reply to one of his mother's musing, a rebuttal or a confirmation. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine her arguing back, hear her voice as she pointed out the flaws in his research.

(And if he closed his eyes, he wasn't alone, not really. The book whispered its secrets to him and he could feel his mother stroking his hair, teaching him scientific discoveries before he fell asleep.)

-x-

A woman approached him in the desert. Her hat was askew, her hair cut short and kept out of the way. Everything about her was neat and ordered, despite the dust that clung to her cloak from the harsh desert winds.

The moment she spoke, he knew she was his mother. The ring wasn't necessary, the proof superfluous. Her book was in her pouch and he gripped his own copy, the leather worn from overuse.

"Mother," he called her, the word sticky in his mouth. He almost forgot the sound of those two syllables, the feel of word.

"The ring could be stolen," she told him after. So matter of fact, as though she hadn't heard a shocking truth, witnessed an unexpected reunion. "There's no proof you're my son."

And of course there wasn't, not really. Not for her. He didn't know if he felt disappointed or elated, her reaction so ordinary that he could almost pretend he wasn't time-traveling.

"That's true." He had nothing else to offer. Weary, his shoulders sank.

His mother eyed him, critically. Examining the ring once more, she added, "We'll just have to find some, then."

He stared at her, surprised.

"You do know the scientific method?"

"Yes." And he was five again, embarking on his first experiment with his mother. "Of course I do."

Miriel smiled. "Come then, there is much work to be done."


End file.
